The Cottage and the Lighthouse

Though the waves crashed against the cliffside and the wind battered the thin walls of the old cottage, Cindy Davis didn't stop smiling and set the table in her kitchen for one. She couldn't hear it anyway. The lights had gone out, but she had a plethora of candles just for this occasion. Every time she went out to the market, she bought a few candles, especially if there were new scents out. Something about the dancing yellow flame enchanted her. It was so frantic, so desperate to escape its shackles, and yet so playful. She liked to put her fingers near the fire and see how coy it was around her, but it was so confident when she pulled her hand back. Cindy often wondered how candles sounded. The wax dripping had to make a sound, right? As did the little fire. Her sister had once said that big bonfires sounded like lions... Now, Cindy didn't know what that meant, exactly, but she had seen lions gape their maws and mist up the cool dawn air of the savanna... It was a grand sight... Perhaps candles sounded like lion cubs.

Lightning flashed in her windows, and Cindy braced herself for the thunder. She couldn't hear it, but she could feel the thunder in her bones. As she gazed at a Christmas cookie scented candle, she indeed felt the menacing shiver in her skeleton. She shook it off and went to the kitchen to retrieve her stew. It was nothing fancy - just some beef and potatoes cooked in an herbaceous broth, but it reminded her of growing up in the storm buffeted areas of the New England coastline. She had grown up near the ocean, but had gone to school in the midwest. After working a few years at a special school for the deaf, she decided to sell everything and buy a little cottage on the coast of northern Maine. She had returned to the sea, her only neighbor an older man who lived alone in the lighthouse. Cindy went to the window by her couch.

There it stood - fifty feet of white stone interlaced with chipping black paint. Its light was on full blast and spun about rhythmically. Somewhere in there was the older gentleman, probably about to eat his own dinner.

***

"Just go down there... Do it. Just do it..." Peter Williamson paced around the lighthouse muttering such things to himself in almost manic tones, occasionally stopping at the window overlooking the little cottage on the cliffside. He had only seen its resident in passing, and every time he recalled a rush of warmth to his bearded face as he hurriedly looked away. He'd taken this thankless job at the lighthouse for one purpose - to live out here all alone and away from anyone who could harass him. He scratched the deep scar along his face subconsciously, wincing from the pain of an old hurt.

There was no dinner before him - his stomach was tied in a knot. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror hanging by his closet door. The sickly yellow light in his room cast his horrid face into sharp relief. Tufts of rapidly graying hair stuck out from under a tattered sailor's cap. His beard, wild and unkempt, mercifully hid the bottom of his face and obscured his fat lips. Peter's skin was a pale olive, but was filled with scars and discolorations, with the most garish feature being the deep scar which began above his left eye and finished right below his septum.

"Just go down there, Peter... Just-" he kept muttering, now pausing at the rain-lashed window and gazing down at the little cottage. When it had first been built, he'd asked the contractor who was going to live there.

"Some deaf lady," he'd answered gruffly, "Don't know why she picked this cliff over something more cheerful, but she'll be moving in within the year."

"That's pretty quick," replied Peter worriedly, "You'll have this place built in a year?"

The contractor nodded. "Yup. It's really small. Basically one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. That's all she could afford."

"Mm."

The contractor read Peter's face and said, "Look, I can see you like your little... solitary confinement, or whatever, but for what it's worth, I think Ms. Cindy Davis will be gone in six months."

"Why's that?" asked Peter.

"I mean... this place is hell in the winter, the nearest town's twenty miles away, and there's only so much fish you can eat, right?" he slapped Peter on the back, "Trust me. Six months, and she's outta here. Hell, you could probably take the cottage for yourself once she high-tails it."

Peter frowned at the memory. That had been over two years ago, and Cindy had remained steadfast in her digs since she'd moved in, with no signs of leaving. She went into town occasionally, as evidenced by the dirt tracks left by her Volkswagen bug, but mostly she spent her days growing food in her garden or fishing down by the water.

Thunder rattled the windows of the lighthouse, and Peter was taken by a sudden gust of inspiration. He grabbed his patched up blue raincoat from its hanger, adjusted the cap on his head, and began racing down the stairs, his breath catching in his throat as every cigarette he'd ever smoked caught up with him about one flight down.

Peter got to the door and pushed it open, feeling for his keys in the coat and realizing they weren't there. He tried to reach back, but the door slammed shut with a dooming clunk, and he realized he was stuck outside. The lighthouse loomed above him, its strobing bulb lighting up the thick blanket of clouds and sheets of rain. Within a few seconds he was soaked to the bone.

"Well," said Peter, staring at the candle-lit windows about fifty feet away, "Nothin' else for it, I guess." He set off towards the cottage, the wind pushing at his back.

***

Cindy saw the man coming from his lighthouse. He ran out, scrambled back to the door, tugged on it, and then stood outside in the pouring rain for thirty seconds before making a dash for her cottage. It was fortunate she'd been looking over there; had she not seen him, he could've been waiting outside for some time, trying to catch her attention in a window. As it happened, she opened the door and beckoned for him to come inside. He stumbled in, soaking wet, and shook his head like a dog.

"I'm so sorry about the... about me," he said. "I'm a mess."

Cindy signed, "It's no problem," but the man just stared at her blankly. Thankfully, she had a pen and a pad on her coffee table, where she wrote her response and handed it to him.

"Oh, uh... you can... hear me?" He said, arching an eyebrow.

She shook her head and giggled, writing, "I can read lips."

His jaw dropped a little, and he blinked as though he were blown away. "Wow," he said after recovering his wits, "that's... cool."

"Thanks," she scribbled.

"I'm, uh... Peter, by the way. I don't think we've ever really met." He extended a gnarled hand and she shook it with her own calloused fingers.

"I'm Cindy," she wrote, adding, "It's nice to finally meet you."

He nodded, water still dripping off of his beard. He reminded Cindy a bit of Zeus. All the hair on his head looked like clouds - some thundering and ominous, others warm, white, and gentle. Peter made a gesture as though he were clearing his throat and said, "Well, I just stopped by to make sure you were okay in this storm. I guess I'll be heading back now."

She raised her eyebrows and hastily jotted, "Without your keys? Are you gonna stand in the rain waiting for help?"

Peter paused for a moment but said quickly, "I've got a, uh..., a spare set. Yeah, there's a spare set buried somewhere around the lighthouse, I'll just-" he stopped abruptly at the look on her face, which was rather coy. Her limpid gray eyes pierced through his deception, and a knowing smile made him purse his lips and shut up.

She grabbed the pad and wrote, "Why don't you use my phone to call whoever you need to call, and while you wait for them you can join me for dinner."

His face went pale, but he nodded and said, "Thanks... thanks for the offer." Cindy read his lips, but she couldn't read the slight tremble in his voice, nor could she hear his heart beating out of its chest. She crossed the room to fetch her iPhone and handed it to him.

Peter stared at it for a few seconds before the pad was thrust at him once again. It read, "Deaf people can still text, you know."

He blushed and began stuttering, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Her throaty laugh interrupted his babble. She grabbed the pad and wrote, "It's alright. I was just teasing you. It's a fair question."

"Still-" the pad once more interrupted him.

"Please, have a seat," Cindy scrawled, "You like wine?"

"Oh, uh... sure," replied Peter, taking a place at the table. Steam rolled off the top of the stew and thunder roared outside, causing Cindy to jump. He raised his eyebrows and said, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, hastily pouring red wine before scribbling, "I'm fine. The thunder just... feels weird in my bones."

Peter nodded, his brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "This looks amazing," he said.

Cindy's heart blossomed. She could tell by his facial expression that he meant it. Something about his grizzly face - all the scars, the hair, and what looked to be a bit of motor oil... it just made him more enchanting to her. She'd never met a man like that; though to be fair, her experience in that department was woefully lacking. There weren't many options at the school she taught at, and it was so difficult to find a non-deaf man willing to give a deaf woman a chance... But looking at Peter's worn features and kind eyes made her smile in a way that she hadn't in some time... in a way that the plants in her garden just couldn't compete with.

"There's salad too, if you want."

Peter shook his head. "Oh no, thank you, this looks like it's going to be plenty."

Cindy grabbed the pad and quickly wrote, "Alright then, help yourself." She took a sip of wine and savored it deep within her palette. She'd always had an affinity for the subtleties of good food and good wine. Her mother had always over-seasoned everything, and her father used to buy the cheapest wine available - wine that had no character, no nuance, no... spirit. So though Cindy was far from rich, she spent whatever money she had on high quality food and wine.

Peter nodded appreciatively. "This stew tastes amazing!"

It was Cindy's turn to blush. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cooked for someone, so to hear any praise at all was welcome relief. After she scooped up a serving for herself, she wrote, "Thank you!"

There was a pause in which the two of them enjoyed the first few hearty spoonfuls of their meal, accompanied by a deep, rich wine and the continued storm outside. Cindy wondered how it must sound for Peter. She'd felt the patter of rain against a window before, but she couldn't picture what sound that made. Was it sharp and clear - like how water looks through glass, or was it deep and frightening, like little reminders of the thundering heights these droplets had been born from? If Peter was any evidence, the rain was minimally bothersome. He seemed more focused on his food. Cindy noticed a bit of potato hanging in a nook of his beard and reached out to remove it, surprised when he recoiled.

"Sorry, sorry," she scribbled in sloppy handwriting, feeling the color rush to her face.

"It's okay," he was likewise blushing, "I was just... startled, that's all. I... I appreciate whatever you were trying to do."

She smiled and wrote, "You have a piece of potato in your beard."

He blushed deeper. "Oh, jeez. That's embarrassing." He batted at his face randomly, causing the potato to fly out and hit a candle on the windowsill.

"Can you tell me where you're from?" asked Cindy, putting down the pen and sipping her wine.

***

Oh God, this is really happening. The thought bounced its way inside Peter's head about every thirty seconds, at which point he'd have a drink and take a few deep breaths. The whole sequence seemed so odd to him. He'd shown up, unannounced, sopping wet, at the home of this... well, frankly, this beautiful woman, and she'd just invited him in for dinner. A small part of him was telling him to turn and run into the fury of the night. After all, Cindy was just placating him - just tolerating him until his locksmith showed up, after which he'd leave and she'd take a huge sigh of relief, promising to herself to avoid him at all costs in the future.

But a larger part of Peter was enamored by the clarity of her gaze, the dimples which formed in her cheeks when she smiled at him, and the calmness of her posture. In his life, he hadn't met a lot of people, but unless he was drastically mistaken, Cindy wanted him here.

"Can you tell me where you're from?" Cindy passed the pad to him.

"Oh, uh... Well, I grew up in Queens - y'know, New York," said Peter. "Went to college for a history degree, taught for a while at a school in the Bronx, but then I decided... I decided I was sick of city life... all those people you never know, all the rudeness, and especially the smell. Every street smelled like fifty rats dying inside your nostrils."

Cindy laughed and wrote, "So then you moved out here?"

"Actually," he replied, "I moved out to western New York - near Oneonta. But I didn't like it there, either. It was better than the city, but I felt like the people there just... were mean. They were nice to you to your face, and mean behind your back. I started getting into fights... I even... ah, I shouldn't say this."

"Go on," Cindy penned.

"Well, I spent six months in jail for a fight which... I mean, given the outcome, I don't know if I even won." He felt himself blush... again. "That's really embarrassing, but it's the truth." Peter expected Cindy to have a horrified look on her face, but when he met her gaze he saw only compassion and intrigue. He cleared his throat and finished, "So that's when I moved out here and decided to spend the rest of my days in the lighthouse."

"Wow. So how long have you been here?"

He paused to do the mental math and said, "Oh... about 25 years." Peter chuckled. "Jeez... I didn't realize it's been so long."

Cindy grabbed the pad and started writing. Her hands were calloused and rough, probably from all the gardening. Peter's own hands were the same way, so when their fingers touched as he grabbed the pad from her, he felt her appendage as an extension of his own. It was warm, familiar, and comfortable. Subconsciously, he let his hand linger for a moment, and couldn't help but return her smile. She wrote, "Do you ever head into town?"

He nodded. "Sometimes... I... The people look at me a little weird there." Peter touched the scar on his face and looked down at his stew. He heard a pen furiously scribbling for a few seconds, after which the pad was slid across to him.

"There aren't many accommodations in town for deaf people. I get looks too."

Peter smiled wryly. "I bet you get looks for different reasons."

She arched an eyebrow. "What's that?"

He looked away and said, "Because you're beautiful."

Cindy reached across the table and tapped him, writing, "I can't read your lips if you look away, Peter."

He smiled and said, "Never mind."

The two finished up their meal in cozy silence, the redolence of the candles finding its home in Peter's nose. He didn't notice when the rain let up, at least until the last grumble of thunder, which sounded a long way from the cottage.

"What's up?" wrote Cindy.

"The storm's easing," said Peter, "You didn't feel that thunder?"

She shook her head. "Must mean it's far away."

Peter scraped out the last of his stew, sipping on the wine as he looked out of the window at the lighthouse. The cottage was well insulated, but the smell of the ocean still penetrated the walls and the thick aroma of candles.

Cindy pushed the pad at him. "I always love how quickly you can smell the ocean again after a storm."

Before Peter could answer, the burning LED headlights of a truck materialized in the distance, heading straight for the lighthouse. "Ah," he said, disappointed, "There's the locksmith."

Cindy looked where he was gesturing and gave him a melancholic smile. "So that means you have to go attend to your lighthouse?"

He nodded, grimacing. "Yeah... Thank you so much for... everything."

They stood, Cindy writing, "Thank you for coming."

Peter wasn't one for long goodbyes, so the two shared a moment of eye contact before he went out the door. As he walked back to his solitary tower where the locksmith awaited him, he thought, I wonder if the library in town has books on sign language. He smiled and looked back at the cottage, where Cindy waved at him from a window. Peter waved back, the pungent ocean air hitting his lungs as like whispers of a new melody.